“Don’t worry, Limbeck,” shouted Bane, forgetting that they were walking out of range of the thumping and bumping of the great machine. “When we get to my father, the mysteriarch, he’ll have all the answers!”
Hugh didn’t know what the kid said, but he saw Limbeck wince and look around fearfully at the guards, and saw the guards stare suspiciously at the prince and his companions. Obviously His Highness had said something he shouldn’t. Where the hell was Alfred? He was supposed to be watching the kid. Turning, he thumped Alfred in the arm and, when the man looked up, Hugh gestured toward Bane. The chamberlain blinked at Hugh as if wondering for a moment who he was, then understood. Hurrying forward, slipping and stumbling, his feet going in directions one would not have thought humanly possible, Alfred reached Bane’s side and, to divert the boy’s attention, began answering His Highness’s questions about the steel arms.
Unfortunately, Alfred’s mind was intent on last night’s horrendous discovery, not on what he was saying. Bane was intent on making a discovery of his own, and using the chamberlain’s unthinking answers, he was drawing very near it. Jarre and the WUPP’s marched behind the coppers, who marched behind the prisoners. Hidden beneath cloaks and shawls and long flowing beards were thunderers, jingers, a smattering of toots, and here and there a wheezy-wail[17]. At a meeting of the WUPP’s called hurriedly and in secret late last night, Jarre had taught the song. Being a musical race—the newssingers had been keeping the Gegs informed for centuries—the WUPP’s learned quickly and easily. They took it home and sang it to wives, children, and trustworthy neighbors, who also picked it up. No one was quite certain why they were singing this particular song. Jarre had been rather vague on this point, being uncertain herself.
Rumor had it that this was the way Welves and humans fought—they sang and tooted and jingled at each other. When the Welves were defeated (and they could be defeated, since they weren’t immortal), they would be forced to grant the Gegs more treasure.
Jarre, when she heard this rumor spreading among the WUPP’s, didn’t deny it. It was, after all, sort of the truth.
Marching along toward the Lofts, the WUPP’s appeared so eager and excited that Jarre was certain the coppers must be able to see their plans gleaming brightly in the flashing eyes and smug smiles (to say nothing of the fact that those carrying instruments jingled and rattled and occasionally wailed in a most mysterious manner). There was, the Gegs felt, a certain amount of justice in disrupting this ceremony. These monthly rituals with the Welves were symbolic of their slavish treatment of the Gegs. Those Gegs who lived in Drevlin (mostly of the High Froman’s own scrift) were the ones who consistently received the monthly monna, and though the High Froman insisted that all Gegs could come and share in it, he knew as well as the rest of Drevlin that the Gegs were bound to the Kicksey-Winsey and that only a few—and then mostly clarks—could leave their servitude long enough to bask in the Welven eyes and share in the Welven monna. The Gegs, highly elated, marched to battle, their weapons jangling and ringing and wheezing in their hands. Marching along, Jarre recalled the instructions she had given them.
“When the humans begin to sing, we swarm up the stairs, singing at the top of our lungs. Limbeck will make a speech—”
Scattered applause.
“—then he and the gods-who-aren’t will enter the ship—”
“We want the ship!” cried several WUPP’s.
“No, you don’t,” answered Jarre crossly. “You want the reward. We’re going to get the monna this time. All of it.”
Tumultuous applause.
“The High Froman won’t come back with so much as a hand-knit doily! Limbeck is going to take the ship and sail away to upper worlds, where he will learn the Truth, and come back to proclaim it and free his people!” No applause. After the promise of treasure (particularly knit doilies, currently much in demand), no one cared about Truth. Jarre understood this and it saddened her, because she knew it would sadden Limbeck if he ever found out.
Thinking about Limbeck, she had gradually moved forward through the crowd until she was walking right behind him. Her shawl thrown over her head so that no one would recognize her, she kept her eyes and her thoughts fixed on Limbeck.
Jarre wanted to go with him—at least she told herself she did. But she hadn’t argued very hard and had fallen silent completely when Limbeck told her she must stay behind and lead the movement in his absence.
In reality, Jarre was afraid. She had, it seemed, peeked through a crack and caught a glimpse of Truth down there in the tunnels with Alfred. Truth wasn’t something you went out and found. It was wide and vast and deep and unending, and all you could hope to see was a tiny part of it. And to see that part and to mistake it for the whole was to make of Truth a lie.
But Jarre had promised. She couldn’t let Limbeck down, not when this meant so much to him. And then there were her people—living a lie. Surely even a little of the Truth would help and not hurt them.
The Gegs marching around Jarre talked about what they would do with their share of the reward. Jarre was silent, her eyes on Limbeck, wondering if she was hoping they’d succeed or fail.
The High Froman reached the door at the base of the arm. Turning to the Head Clark, he formally accepted a large key, nearly as big as his hand, which he used to open the opener.
“Bring the prisoners,” he called, and the coppers herded everyone forward.
“Mind that dog!” snapped the Head Clark, kicking at the animal sniffing with intense interest at his feet.
Haplo called the dog to his side. The High Froman, the Head Clark, several of the High Froman’s personal guard, and the prisoners crowded into the Liftaloft. At the last moment, Limbeck halted in the door and turned, his eyes scanning the crowd. Catching sight of Jarre, he looked at her long and earnestly. His expression was calm and resolute. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, but she had the feeling he could see her quite clearly. Jarre, blinking back her tears, raised one hand in loving farewell. Her other hand, hidden beneath her cloak, clutched her weapon—a tambourine.
40
“Captain,” reported the lieutenant, peering at the ground below, “There are an unusual number of Gegs waiting for us on the Palm.”
“They’re not Gegs, lieutenant,” said the captain, spyglass to his eyes. “They appear from the looks of them to be human.”
“Human!” The lieutenant stared down at the Palm. His hands itched to snatch the spyglass away from his captain and see for himself.
“What do you make of it, lieutenant?” inquired the captain.
“Trouble, I should think, sir. I’ve served on this run a number of years, and my father served before me, and I’ve never heard of humans being found on the Low Realm. I might suggest—” The lieutenant caught himself and bit his tongue.
“Might suggest?” repeated Captain Zankor’el in a dangerous tone. “You might suggest to your captain? What might you suggest, lieutenant?”
“Nothing, sir. I was out of line.”
“No, no, lieutenant, I insist,” returned Zankor’el, with a glance at the geir.
“I might suggest that we do not dock until we find out what’s going on.” This was a perfectly reasonable and logical suggestion, as Captain Zankor’el well knew. But it would mean discussion with the Gegs, and Zankor’el couldn’t speak a word of Geg. The Lieutenant could. Captain Zankor’el immediately came to the conclusion that this was just another trick of the lieutenant’s to make a mockery of him—Captain Zankor’el of the royal family—in the eyes of the crew. The lieutenant had done so once already, with his damn-fool heroics. The captain decided he would see his soul in that small lapis-and-chalcedony-inlaid box the geir carried with him at all times before he’d let that happen again.